MEMOIRS

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You’ve never been just a girl
Never been the same thing twice in a row
On Monday, you looked like the kind of hope found in recovery rooms and waiting areas
You clung to dear life as though Saturday night you didn’t cradle in the bosom of unwritten poems and black wilted petals
On Tuesday you were the thorn on a stem and by Friday you were the rose perfect without a trim
You wore the red dress you saved up for a special occasion then stripped in front of the mirror telling your waist length prophecies of what it’s yet to become
You’ve lost all memory of Wednesday like it was a routine ride back home from work
On Sunday, you returned from church looking like an inbox of unread messages hidden underneath toothless grins
Thursday was one of those days you overdosed on placebos
One of those times…

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